


The Latest Fashion, Old Boy

by helwolves



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha Wolf Remus, Biting, But Not the Mpreg Kind, Collars, Gratuitous Banter, M/M, Marauders era, Rough Oral Sex, The sexy kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-06
Updated: 2004-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helwolves/pseuds/helwolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his sixteen years in this world, Sirius Black has been known to make some fashion decisions that would best be described as <i>interesting</i>. Not the least of which is his latest find, something as yet unseen in the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardly—namely, the bit of black leather and silver peeking out from his shirt collar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Latest Fashion, Old Boy

**Author's Note:**

> For a pairing that involves a werewolf and a boy who turns into a big dog, there was (is?) astoundingly little collar fic. This was probably my most commented-on and widely rec'd fic, originally posted December 6, 2004, at [**pornish_pixies**](http://pornish_pixies.livejournal.com/).

During his sixteen years in this world, Sirius Black has been known to make some fashion decisions that would best be described as _interesting_. Not the least of which is his latest find, something as yet unseen in the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardly—namely, the bit of black leather and silver peeking out from his shirt collar.

“What the bloody hell is that, Pads?” James Potter exclaims, laughing as he takes a flying leap onto Sirius’s bed and reaches to touch the offending accessory.

“Oi!” Sirius barks. He swats James’s hand away with a snarl. 

“Hey! Down, boy,” says James, teeth flashing. “I wasn’t going to put a lead on you.” He licks a bit of jam from his upper lip and takes another bite from his bit of toast.

“It’s the latest fashion, I’ll have you know,” Sirius drawls, settling into a reclined position on the floor against his own four-poster bed. His fingers drift to the collar at his throat, skipping along the cool metal studs. He quite likes the sensation, though he certainly knows better than to point such things out to James “Everything Is Ammunition” Potter.

“Yes, Padfoot was just about to explain his interesting acquirement,” Remus says from the next bed over, his voice rich with amusement. 

Sirius glowers up at him, though an unnerving sort of glint in Remus’s eyes makes him shift uncomfortably. “As I was telling Mssr Moony here, it’s—” Sirius feels the blood rising slowly to his face. He pauses, closing his eyes to actively deny, for a moment, the mirth he knows is creeping into his friends’ faces. “Very big in Muggle London. Punk rock and all that.”

Remus laughs softly. James nearly falls off the bed giggling.

Sirius flicks them the V-sign. “Right. Well. I wouldn’t expect _you_ lot to understand.”

“No, Sirius,” Remus says, grinning as he leans over the edge of his bed. “I’m sorry, it—it’s just—it doesn’t really work with the tie, does it?”

“Hey!” Sirius is pulled awkwardly forward onto his knees when Remus tugs, hard, on the end of his striped tie. “No strangling, mate. Don’t want this pretty face to go all blue, you know.”

“It would truly be a loss to all the world,” Remus agrees solemnly, though his lips are bowed in a smirk that sets Sirius squirming as if he were trying to hold a Pepper Imp on his tongue. Quick fingers undo the knot of Sirius’s tie and pull it loose. 

“Mm,” says Sirius.

“There,” Remus says, tossing the red and gold bit of fabric to the floor. “Much better.”

“Mm,” says Sirius.

James clears his throat loudly. 

“And you’re now the expert on Muggle fashion,” says James, with a sudden, disturbingly broad grin. “Eh, Mr. Black, comma, Most Ancient and Noble House of?”

Sirius replies the only way that seems appropriate—by turning round and tackling James to the ground, smearing his face with the jam from his pilfered, half-eaten toast.

“Right, then,” Sirius gasps finally, settling back against his bed as James crawls out from beneath him. “One of us here spent last hols bumming about King’s Road, and that one of us was certainly not you, Potter.”

“It’s all right, Sirius, I understand,” James says. “Punk rock birds. Pink hair, metal chains, no knickers,” he concludes, with a conspiratorial nod.

Sirius is preparing himself to spring again when Peter Pettigrew stumbles through the door and dumps an armful of treacle tarts onto James’s unmade bed. “Mmphs err mmpthing!” he squeaks, before shoving the other half of a tart into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

“Look, Wormsy—Sirius has got himself a collar, like a right puppy dog.” James quirks his head at Sirius, grinning.

“Oh, s’brilliant, Sirius,” says Peter with a slight tinge of awe. Then he smirks and adds, “Now you just need a lead for that Ravenclaw you’ve been chatting—” 

Sirius sticks out one leg—accidentally, of course—and Peter stumbles as he reaches for another tart.

“Oi! You almost made me drop one!” Peter yelps, kicking wildly backward in retaliation.

“So, what’s the agenda for tonight, then, eh?”

“Phase Four,” says James grimly.

“Ah yes, Phase Four. Just you and Wormtail then,” Sirius says, frowning.

“Sadly so, Padfoot, old boy.” James runs a hand back through his already-mussed hair. 

“Evans won’t know what hit her,” says Sirius.

“That’s what I’m afraid of, you know,” says Peter, pulling a rucksack from his trunk.

“Pete,” James sighs tragically. “You know that isn’t until Phase Six. _Honestly_.”

“Cheers, then.” Sirius pulls himself to his feet as a huge yawn wracks his body. He stretches with exaggerated enthusiasm and then flops onto Remus’s bed, sending two quills and an ink bottle rolling to the floor. “We’ll just have fun without you. Right? What’s on _our_ agenda for tonight?”

“Well...” Remus disappears beneath the opposite side of his bed and reappears with some books and a particularly ominous number of fresh parchment rolls. “I thought Runes first, and then Defence.”

“Moony,” Sirius groans, rolling to clutch at Remus’s pillow with a pained expression, “you sure know how to show a lad a good time.”

*

“Nmmgh... Remus. Sleep now.”

“Sod off,” Remus mutters, without looking down at the boy curled up not-quite-comfortably beside him. “Just because we had better, Marauding type things to do the rest of this week doesn’t mean I’m skiving off homework. You know I’m not any good at—”

“You’re a nutter, s’what you are. _Sleeeeeeep_... Peter and Prongs went to bed _hours_ ago.”

“Just cos you lot are willing to fail Defence Against the Dark Arts doesn’t mean I am.”

“Oh, your _mum’s_ a Dark Art,” Sirius growls into the mattress.

“No, _your_ mum’s a Dark Art,” Remus counters, in a smug tone.

Sirius rolls onto his side. He should have some vicious retort for that, really, or perhaps could choose to employ the Puppy-Dog Eyes of Doom, but all he can manage at the moment is what he assumes is a very hollow expression, judging by the way Remus’s eyes go downcast, looking remarkably dark in the lantern light. 

“Er, sorry,” the other boy mutters, shuffling his parchment.

Remus receives a sharp jab in the ribs for his trouble. “Right,” says Sirius. “Sleeping now.”

“Right,” Remus sighs with defeat, standing up and shoving his books under the bed. “Er, Sirius?”

“What _now_?”

“You’re sort of... Ah... This is my bed.”

“Hnnnph,” says Sirius, burying his face further into the blankets. Remus nudges him, hard, and he flops onto his back. “M’bloody trying to sleep, you know.”

“Padfoot.”

“Inconsiderate, insomniacal toss—”

“Oh, all right, _enough_ ,” Remus hisses. “I’m going to sleep. Now. All right? Sleeping. Now out of my bed, you mangy creature.” His mouth curves into a barely suppressed grin as he slips a finger beneath Sirius’s collar and pulls. 

Most of Hogwarts knows that making Sirius Black so much as knot his tie in the morning when he has better things in mind is generally a feat approaching impossibility, and Sirius is rather proud of this fact. But he finds himself on his feet in seconds, with Remus crouched on the bed before him, looking rather startled. And possibly blushing.

Sirius’s fingers drift to his neck, skimming lightly over where the collar rubs his skin, while he thinks how strange it is to see a werewolf blush. 

“I—” says Remus. “Sorry.”

Sirius stands there for a moment and blinks at Remus, slowly, with an unnerving hint of dreamlike perceptiveness—or just the clarity that comes with utter exhaustion—making everything look a bit too sharply focused. Sirius feels his face flush. “G’night, then,” he says lightly, shuffling backward the few feet to his own four-poster.

Remus draws his curtains closed, but Sirius can still hear the restless rustling of bedclothes for many minutes before he finally drifts off to sleep.

*

Sirius senses the movement outside his drawn curtains before he really hears it. 

“Moony?” he asks softly, forcibly banishing from his mind a few sudden, wild visions of ghouls, and boggarts, and murderers come to collect on a series of unpaid bar tabs. The dark curtain folds open, spilling in moonlight to reveal Remus, shuffling and biting his lower lip, his pale skin spread with gooseflesh for lack of a shirt, with striped pyjama bottoms hanging loosely on his slim hips. 

Sirius regards him through one open eye and gives a questioning smirk.

“Can’t sleep,” Remus says absently, leaning more than sitting on the edge of Sirius’s bed. The earlier strangeness, Sirius did not understand, but this—this is not the first time Remus has crawled into Sirius’s bed in the wee hours, looking panicked and shivering. _This_ Sirius understands, even if that fevered brightness in Remus’s honey-brown eyes is a bit unnerving. He shifts over with a grunt and Remus stretches onto his side, long limbs neatly arranging themselves. 

Sirius wonders if this will be one of those nights when Remus allows him to pretend—doesn’t squirm away when Sirius curls against him, doesn’t blush and collapse in on himself when Sirius meets his eyes across the pillow. He doesn’t wonder for very long. 

“You’re still in your clothes,” Remus says softly. 

Sirius mentally flails for a moment, then remembers that Remus is of course wearing pyjamas, as good ickle Gryffindors do. “I was very tired,” he replies, wondering if Remus can hear that strained tone in his voice, too. 

Sirius shifts restlessly when the other boy merely grins in reply.

“But, that—that can’t be comfortable.” Remus says after a moment. He touches Sirius’s collar, then trails a fingertip along the skin there, slowly, carefully—curiously.

“It’s—ah—not so bad, you know,” says Sirius, the words feeling thick and odd-shaped, and catching on his tongue. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bloody difficult to think if Remus would stop _doing that_. 

Sirius opens his mouth to tell him so, he really means to, but every touch of Remus’s fingers to the collar, and to his neck, makes Sirius squirm as though those feathery brushes of fingertips were being applied directly to his cock, which he has just noticed is pressing painfully against his zip. And that isn’t even the least of his worries, as the glowing focus in Remus’s eyes is making Sirius feel more exposed than if he were lying there naked, and oh fuck now he’s thinking about _naked_ , and that is not really helping, is it?

Sirius almost laughs when Remus slips one long forefinger between the leather and his neck, but then—Remus tugs. 

Sirius’s breath hitches. His eyes flutter closed and his body goes still, muscles humming with potential energy, clenching, aching. Part of him wants to thrash against the sudden feeling of helplessness, but the slight weight of Remus’s arm resting on his chest somehow pins him utterly.

Remus’s breath is warm and damp, teasingly close to Sirius’s ear, and all stuttery in a way that sends heat curling all through Sirius’s body. Remus adds a second finger, then runs them gently from side to side, his jagged fingernails catching on the soft skin of Sirius’s neck. Sirius arches, his head pressing back into the pillow, baring his neck to Remus, who Sirius would know is staring—at the pulse in his neck, the pale expanse of skin, at his mouth—were Sirius able to do more than gaze fixedly at the canopy above his four-poster and force himself to keep breathing.

“Sirius?” Remus’s voice is low and shaking, and Sirius can feel the vibration of his words in a way that he doesn’t quite think is physically possible, except that it apparently is.

“Mm-hmm?” Sirius manages, his mouth feeling even more dry and clumsy. His hand, palm up on the pillow beside his head, clenches and unclenches.

“ _Up_.” Remus’s fingers tug again, so gently, and all the tension in Sirius’s joints melts and sings as he pulls himself to a sitting position, Remus mirroring his movement, one slender arm still steadying against Sirius’s pounding chest.

When Remus’s fingers slide out from beneath the collar, Sirius makes a noise that is part canine snuffle and part whimper and _all_ embarrassing, but he doesn’t have time to think about it, really, because Remus is there beside him, warm breath against the back of his neck. Inhale, exhale, and Sirius knows what he is doing—he’s seen the wolf do it before, endlessly, nose to the ground, to the trees and the sky, tasting and testing for predator and prey—the way to get one’s bearings, the most basic way of _knowing_ without asking, without being told. Remus’s breath disturbs the soft, dark curls at the base of Sirius’s neck, and Sirius shivers.

By now he should be twitching with frustration, like any other time Remus is this close but not, all the other times they’ve spent curled together, panting and spent, with Sirius feeling regret like a stone in his chest for having to shift back from the dog into just himself—just Sirius who is not allowed to nuzzle at Remus’s belly or steal a wet kiss before dashing off toward the next game or puddle or interesting smell.

But it isn’t there. No ice in his gut, no pang of frustration or envy or regret, just this—this barely felt presence, a crackling of anticipation, and a sort of calm he has never known before.

Remus breathes deeply at the side of Sirius’s neck and Sirius knows what he will smell: soap, maybe, and sweat, the warm leather of the collar, and arousal steadily building, and _Sirius_ —his friend, his pack mate, open and panting and _willing_.

Daring to lift his eyes, Sirius steals a sideways glance. Remus looks as drugged as Sirius feels, if that were possible, and Sirius might laugh at the flutter of his eyes or the twitchy tension in his shoulders, had he control over the breath currently being restricted, just so, by Remus’s fingers curling tightly around the back of the collar.

“Sirius, are you sure it isn’t too—cos you’re breathing a bit—a bit, umm—” Remus says, his voice low, and warm, and coiling through Sirius in a thousand delicious ways.

“No... no! It’s—” Sirius swallows hard. The leather scratches against his throat, not painfully but _there_ , and another shiver rolls through him. Remus shifts, carefully and silently, pressing so close behind Sirius that he would only have to just lean back and... “Ah, oh _fuck_ , Moony,” Sirius gasps, helplessly, as Remus slides his other hand up Sirius’s chest and traces the lines of his neck with achingly gentle fingers.

Remus’s breath is hot and steady against his cheek, and Sirius feels as much as hears it when Remus finally whispers, “Tighter, then?”

All the air leaves Sirius’s lungs in a choked rush. The answering nod he gives is little more than a twitch.

Remus pulls away and Sirius feels quick fingers working at the base of his neck—little touches, the scratch of leather, and the cold metal maddening as Remus pulls the collar tighter and refastens the buckle. Sirius finally breathes again when Remus’s fingers slip beneath the collar and tug gently, testing his handiwork.

“Better?” Remus whispers, his lips brushing the sensitive skin behind Sirius’s ear.

Sirius nods.

“Brilliant,” Remus growls. He snaps his wrist and pulls Sirius onto his back again in one fluid motion. Sirius gasps out a breath, his hips nearly bucking, but his shoulders stay flat against the bed—Remus is, Sirius well knows, stronger than he looks. 

Sirius wills his eyes open, catching Remus’s stare, his pupils gone large and lunar wild. The fingers of Remus’s opposite hand brush the edges of the collar and the faintly reddening skin along Sirius’s neck, then flick open the highest buttons of his white shirt. Remus hovers closer still, warm huffs against Sirius’s neck, breathing in and tasting him, making Sirius writhe. 

“Moony... Remus, _please_...” Sirius pants.

A desperate snarl rolls up from deep within Sirius’s chest, and Remus presses his teeth into the pale, tender flesh between collar and shoulder. 

Sirius half expects a flash of pain, the fire of dark magic sluicing into his body, boiling his blood, taking him, transforming him from the inside out. He might have welcomed it too, but there is only the scrape of rough edges, sharp pressure and warmth, and then the soft rasp of Remus’s tongue against his skin. And it’s good, it’s so fucking good, intensifying by the second, with Remus apparently growing more confident that yes, he wants this, and oh Merlin, does Sirius want this too... 

He lets out a needy little moan that Remus answers with a soft growl of his own. His pinned arm slides up around Remus’s shoulder to clench in his hair as Remus nips and licks a path along the collar, nuzzles at the V of exposed skin, runs his tongue and teeth in a burning path up Sirius’s neck to claim his gasping lips. 

Sirius moans into Remus’s mouth, rolling his hips against the weight of Remus leaning over him more and more, his body begging what he cannot find words for. Remus slides one leg between Sirius’s bent knees, and Sirius bucks helplessly against him. Remus groans, pressing Sirius into the mattress with an answering roll of his hips. 

And then Sirius is lost to the clicking of teeth and sliding tongues and wet heat, Remus growling and licking, and _mine, mine, you’re mine_ without the words, and his hands pawing at Remus’s back while his hips roll and his breath comes in fits because Remus’s fingers are tight around the collar that is tight around his neck.

Finally Remus pulls back, hovering, their lips a breath apart, and Sirius finds himself gasping and mumbling a steady stream of pleas and promises and curses. Remus’s lips quirk. Sirius feels the arm beneath him flex and the hand at the back of his neck relax, the leather slackening a bit, and he goes still.

“Sirius,” Remus breathes. “Quietly.”

Sirius blinks, dazedly, and then nods. From this distance he can see every tiny fleck of gold in Remus’s eyes and suddenly is dying to tell him so in a hundred ways, but— _Quietly_. His breathing slows to silent moments broken by sudden gasps and Remus is smiling just a bit, almost like laughing. Sirius begins to panic but his mad, urgent _oh fuck oh Merlin is this just a windup isn’t it_ thoughts quickly dissolve as Remus flicks his wrist, tilts Sirius’s head, and slowly, maddeningly licks his way back into Sirius’s mouth.

Sirius thrusts his hips shamelessly, grinding his aching cock against the thigh pressed hard between his legs, the uneven friction making his senses seem to alternately short out and then burst into flame. He manages to slide his hands over the lithe, flexing muscles of Remus’s back, to slip beneath the waist of his pyjamas and urge him closer. Remus responds with another low growl, nudging Sirius’s legs apart again, fitting his own hips tight between so that Sirius can feel Remus’s cock grind against his own, only with too much fabric between, bloody stupid fabric, but he’s still so close to coming, embarrassingly close. 

And suddenly it’s too much and Sirius is tumbling over the edge, with Remus’s teeth against his neck, Remus’s fingers pulling the collar so tight, Remus’s weight driving him into the mattress with each hard thrust of his hips, and Remus’s soft, growling voice whispering broken sentences that Sirius wouldn’t have even thought he knew how to say by light of day, _you smell so fucking good, Sirius... taste so sweet... are you close? I know you are... can smell it, taste it, fuck... come on, now, for me..._ as he shudders and swears and spills.

Remus kisses him again, slow and deep, and everything is quiet except for the shifting of fabric and the creaking of the old wooden four-poster bed.

After a long moment Sirius becomes aware that Remus is grinding against him still, with small, frustrated noises rattling around in his chest. Sirius manages to shake off the molten feeling in his limbs long enough to slide a hand between their bodies. His fingers easily slip into Remus’s pyjamas, always too loose on those narrow hips, and close around the damp heat of his cock. At once Remus emits a pained hiss, jerks hard into Sirius’s hand, and sinks his teeth into Sirius’s shoulder. Sirius laughs breathlessly, rolling his head sideways to offer better access and to bury his nose in Remus’s shaggy hair. 

“Wait, wait—” Sirius gasps suddenly, nudging at Remus, who groans softly but allows Sirius to scramble out from beneath him as he settles onto his back. “Better idea,” Sirius murmurs, licking a wet path down Remus’s neck and collarbone. He makes no attempt to veil his intentions as he proceeds downward, pausing to nuzzle at the soft hair trailing down Remus’s belly before snagging the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and tugging, Remus bucking his hips to permit the sliding fabric.

Sirius settles between Remus’s sprawled legs and flashes a feral grin as he wraps his hand around Remus’s exposed cock. He draws back the loose skin and lets his bruised mouth hover, puffing hot breath against hotter flesh, wetting his lips and watching precome leak from the tip with no small amount of fascination. Remus’s fingers dig into the bed sheets and the muscles in his thighs tense beneath Sirius, who catches Remus’s eye for a moment before flicking out his tongue.

Remus makes a sound that is part whimper and part snarl and causes Sirius’s own spent cock to leap with interest again. No words, though, and Sirius grins as he sets to his task, sucking Remus’s cock between his kiss-swollen lips, lapping and swirling his tongue, making Remus’s hips roll luxuriously in response. Bit by bit, Remus’s hand moves from the bed at his side, to clutching at Sirius’s hair, to hooking his fingers around the collar’s buckle at the base of Sirius’s neck. 

Sirius can feel the exact moment it changes from him sucking Remus off to Remus fucking his mouth. 

Sirius shivers all over, closing his eyes tight and just _feeling_ , letting his tongue work, letting Remus’s hand push and pull and angle him just so, the tugging on his collar making him dizzy for lack of air or maybe that’s just how it feels to be utterly taken and overwhelmed and oh _fuck_ , for the excellent wanks he’s had over the idea, he never knew it would be this fucking _good_.

Remus arches under him, the growls and panting breaths coming faster and louder. Sirius groans, nearly choking, taking Remus in as far as he can, Remus guiding him with one hand on the collar while the other tangles almost gently in his hair. Remus thrashes against the bed and it only takes a few of these deep, slow thrusts before he’s coming, liquid warmth spilling against the back of Sirius’s throat. 

Sirius struggles to swallow, wiping his lips with the back of his hand when Remus finally pulls out and his hips hit the mattress again. Sirius stares up at him and laps at his cock, still pulsing gently with release.

For a few moments Sirius knows nothing but the blood pounding in his ears and the ragged sounds of Remus breathing. Then Remus pulls on the collar again, drawing him upward until he’s hovering inches Remus’s flushed face. Sirius’s heart tugs in his chest and then he’s kissing Remus, ignoring the suddenly nagging thought that Remus might not _want_ to be kissed after that, but it’s okay because Remus is kissing him back, pushing his tongue into Sirius’s mouth with fierce purpose, clutching Sirius against his sweat-dampened chest.

“Fuck,” says Remus, letting his head drop heavily onto Sirius’s pillow.

“Indeed,” Sirius says with a soft laugh. He shrugs out of his shirt, then distractedly licks at a tempting spot along Remus’s neck.

“Oh hell, Padfoot—I didn’t—You—” Remus sputters, suddenly pushing at Sirius and running his thumb along a bruised place on his shoulder, eliciting a sharp gasp and a flashing smile.

“Aghh, Moony...” Sirius crawls half atop him, brushing the damp spikes of hair from his eyes. “It’s all right. It _is_. I wanted that—wanted _all_ of it.” Remus shuts his eyes tightly and Sirius sighs, pressing a wet kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Wanted _you_ ,” he adds in a whisper. “Silly git.”

“Well, that’s—yes, fine, bloody _obvious_ , aren’t you? But...” Remus breathes, opening his eyes again. “Don’t like... losing control like that,” he says, so low that Sirius struggles to make out the words. 

“Don’t know if I’d call it _losing_ control.”

Remus gives him a sharp look. “Sirius, I could hurt y—”

“You didn’t.”

“I _did_.” He strokes his fingers up Sirius’s neck to card through his hair again. Sirius winces at the pressure against his raw skin.

“Look, _don’t_. It—it’s not as if it’s going to _scar_ me.” Sirius doesn’t think it wise to add _though I can’t say I’d mind if you did_ to this sentiment. “Besides, it’s my own fault,” he adds, smirking. “I bought the bloody collar.” He grins and then licks a wide path up Remus’s cheek with a rather wet tongue.

Remus yelps and laughs despite himself. “Bad dog.”

“Mmm. You’ll just have to—” Sirius pauses, yawning deeply. “—punish me tomorrow, mate.”


End file.
